


love is brightest in the dark

by picapica



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:37:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5424257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picapica/pseuds/picapica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about beginnings, or: Aglarond wasn't built in a day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love is brightest in the dark

The dawn sky above the Hornburg is as pink and tender as a fresh-healed wound. The soft light is kind to the still-shattered remains of the outer wall, edging vast blocks of stone in gold and gentling the signs of the lingering devastation into something less intimidating. Guards stand yawning in the chill, spaced at intervals along what remains of the wall, but there are fewer than there once would have been, and that is because the One Ring and its master are no more.

One of these guards is smaller than the others, and is appointed only by his own restless feet. The earth is good here, strong and solid for a great depth beneath his feet, and it’s a comfort to Gimli as he stands as the sole dwarrow on watch. There are others in the Hornburg, but Gimli is the only one of them used to the habits of an elf, and so Gimli is the only one as yet awake.

“I would never have thought to see a dwarf enjoying the sunrise,” says the guard nearest to him, and Gimli’s instinctive bristle is curbed when he sees how young the guard is beneath their helm.

“Just because we may spend years without sun does not mean we disregard it,” he says, in the stern tone of a teacher. “And you would do well not to think of a race as having a singular constitution, lad, or would I have to think all men as ignorant to my kind as you?”

“My apologies, Master Dwarf,” says the guard, voice tinged with genuine regret.

  “It is all right,” says Gimli. “We have kept our secrets too long, and it isn’t your fault that you only have rumour to rely upon for knowledge. We do care for the light, lad, and let that be the first of many lessons between our people.”

            The boy, because now that Gimli is paying attention he sees that this is indeed only a youth, bobs his head eagerly. His chin is barer than a dwarrow babe, eyes round with an awe that would have made a younger Gimli’s chest swell with pride. “I will remember this lesson, Master Dwarf!”

  “My name is Gimli, lad.”

  “Gimli – of the Nine Walkers!” the boy exclaims, and if his eyes were round before then now they are bulging. Gimli’s mouth curves as the boy’s mouth works furiously, seemingly tripping himself up in his eagerness. “I’m – my Lord!”

  “It’s quite all right,” says Gimli. “I am not yet a Lord, or if I am then I am Lord of nothing. Master Gimli will do quite well.”

  “Master Gimli,” says the boy, and seems quite incapable of saying anything more. He bows instead, an awkward thing that leaves his helm askew when he straightens.

            Gimli nods his head in dismissal and turns his face to the rising sun.

* * *

            In the highest corner of the highest cavern there will be a chamber that Gimli will carve only with his own two hands. Its walls will be finely polished and carved with braided vines, and it will be ugly to the eyes of Gimli’s contemporaries in that it will lack the solid lines of any halfway decent dwarrowdelf. This will be a chamber of curves and exquisitely tooled stone flowers, ugly to a dwarf – but perfect for an elf.

            This room does not yet exist, but it will, and Gimli has mapped out every inch of its design. If the woodelf will allow Gimli to bring his axes to the forest, then Gimli will allow the elf to bring his trees into the caves, stone though they might be.  

            The construction of this room has become Gimli’s favourite daydream, and he thinks on it as he leaves the guard on the wall for the dining hall inside the keep. First he will delve the space itself, large to create the airiness of Legolas’ woodland chambers, and then the rough shape that will be shaped into vines and leaves and trees. They will be birch, elm, yew, juniper, each leaf perfectly crafted. Gimli is picturing the precise steps required to shape a stone oak leaf when he reaches the hall and is promptly hailed.

  “What kind of khazad are you, awake before even the birds?” calls Asmun, gesturing for him to sit beside her, an offer which he takes gladly. She is a strong dwarrowdam, a miner by trade but with the fierce tongue of a court member, and she has become a good friend to Gimli through both.

            He takes the sausages she offers him, noting their absence from the serving platter in the centre of the long table and the red faces of the dwarrows sitting opposite. He raises an eyebrow at them and does his best not to laugh when the youngest looks about ready to faint.

  “Are you some waifish elf? Show your spine!” demands Asmun, banging her fists on the table. The men around them startle at the noise and Gimli wonders how they will cope when this first meagre company swells to the size required to bring the caves below the Hornburg to their full glory. Gimli would have brought such a contingent immediately if he could, but history has never been kind to the khazad and Gimli himself has learned the value of caution many times over in his dealings with men before the shadow was defeated. So a small group at first and then many dozens more, for Gimli knows the worth of these caverns – has seen an elf made speechless by their beauty. This expedition is only a formality, though he has delighted in keeping the details of the caverns close to his chest so that this first group might enjoy their wonders as he and Legolas were able to.

  “I am no _tree shagger_ ,” scorns the young dwarrow, apparently having found his tongue. “It’s common sense to be wary at getting between a strong khazad and his first meal!”

  “Wise words,” says Gimli, grabbing the tankard that Asmun slides across to him and lifting it in salute. “Though if you are all wondering why I am up before the birds, then I might wonder the same considering not a one of you has been awake before noon these past few days. Is that a new trend under the mountain, to sleep away all good work?”

            Asmun snatches the tankard back. “You shan’t have a drop of that if you’re like this without the help,” she says. “It is a long trip from Erebor, and even the most skilled dwarrow is no use with hands crippled by weariness. But today we are well, and so today we will finally see your caves, Mister Gimli, and whether they truly were worth the journey.”

  “Oh, they are,” says Gimli, and his thoughts again turn to that highest room. “Did I tell you I had an elf wordless?”

  “An honourable khazad doesn’t kiss and tell, Mister Gimli,” says the youngest dwarrow of the group, Rógvi, in a tone of voice that reminds Gimli almost eerily of his own amad.

  “I think I preferred you without your spine,” he says, narrowing his eyes at the young dwarrow and ignoring Asmun as she roars with laughter and pounds her fists upon the table once again. “You will marvel at your own doubts soon enough,” he continues. “The caverns in these mountains are fine beyond measure.”

  “Aye, but there are things still more fine, are there not,” says Asmun, her eyes twinkling. “When will the Lord Legolas be joining us?”

  “He is needed in Mirkwood,” says Gimli, frowning at her as she grins.

  “Oh, aye, needed to pull his father out of his wine barrels!”

  “He’ll be swimming in them himself,” snorts Rógvi. “I’m surprised his lot stopped long enough to even notice the fighting, let alone help.”

            Gimli grinds his teeth together as he thinks what to say. It’s not long since he himself would have been likely to say much the same, and Rógvi is a good sort – one of only twelve to volunteer to make the long trek down to the Hornburg under Gimli’s leadership. Not many had been willing to leave Erebor in the wake of victory – or rather, not many had been willing to leave before the feasting began. “It would be wise to be slower in dismissing the worth of elves,” he says, and at once all eyes are upon him, every pair except Asmun’s a little startled at his words. “They are as much individuals as you or I,” he adds. “Blame not the son for the deeds of his father, nor the people for the wroth of their king.”

  “They are all too eager to blame us,” says Rógvi, face flushed.

            Gimli stands, then, holding his head high with the practise of one used to walking alongside men and elves and wizards. “The Elvenking would seek to blame us, perhaps, and if so may he drown in his damned wine barrels. But not his son, and not his people. The elves of Mirkwood will be welcome in my halls, should they come.”   

  “You forget your histories,” says Rógvi. “You forget _Smaug_. Where were our _allies_ then? What was _our_ worth?”

  “The lives of the free peoples are beyond worth, and if the Elvenking did not know that then he has since learned it. I dare say the lesson was complete when his youngest son chose to act for the good of all beings rather than just those of the forest.”

            Rógvi quails, then, and bows his head. “I would not say that I agree, Mister Gimli, because I would not be dishonest to the likes of you. I have not met elves, though, and so I will wait on this Legolas you speak so highly of, and then I will make my judgement.”

  “The same as with the caves, you will not be disappointed,” says Gimli, and they finish their meal with lighter conversation.

* * *

            The narrow passages twisting away from the belly of the keep are unimpressive but perfect for surprising the doubtful, and Gimli hides his joy in false gruffness lest he give away the coming wonder. Even the most doubtful of his small company still believes, to an extent, else they would not have followed him all this way, but he knows that they will not have imagined anything like what lies ahead. Even without craft and as unworked as an elvish forest these caves are exquisite, and Gimli is lit from within by his own excitement.

            The stream that curls to and fro across the floor of the passages suddenly runs straight and black, cutting deep where it had been unable to cover the top of a boot only a few metres before, and Gimli knows that they have arrived. He stops, looks back along the line of dwarves – at Asmun right behind him, the most trusting of the lot, and Rógvi behind her. The others are ranged out a little bit, obviously disheartened by the meagre approach and by their wet feet, and Gimli is nearly trembling with anticipation.

  “Welcome to Aglarond,” he says, and the Sindarin feels right on his tongue.

            Asmun eyes him curiously and then steps around him, and his smile only broadens when he hears her shout. Rógvi hurries through after her and the others follow, and only when the last of them are through Gimli follows.

            This first great cavern yawns higher than Minas Tirith, and though to the eyes of men it would be an endless dark to the eyes of dwarrows it is a wonder beyond any other. Gimli stands in chink of torchlight provided by the passageway and watches his dwarrows as they scatter across the chamber, hands reverent on the gleaming walls, their strong bodies made small by twisting spires of ivory rock.

  “This place – it is a wonder. There so many gems beneath our feet that it is as if we are walking upon blessed ground,” says Asmun, coming back to him. Her eyes are rounded, eagerly tracking over and over the cavern as if desperate to remember every detail. She clasps Gimli’s shoulder and nods at him. “You walked with men and elves against the Dark Lord himself, and now you find for us a dwarrowdelf to rival Khazad-dum! I wonder that you are named Gimli, and not Durin, for all the good you have done for our people.”

  “He does not need to be Durin,” says Rógvi, joining them. “Gimli will be enough – for what a title! Lord Gimli of the Glittering Caves!”

            They wander away again and this time Gimli joins them. This place, Aglarond…there is a wonder here beyond its outer beauty. There are years in these stones for all their emptiness, the echo of mannish footfalls in every corner. There are other, more recent echoes – there, the spire that Legolas climbed to touch the gems studded into the arching cave roof. He’d called them dwarfish stars, and Gimli had called him a fool.

            Gimli seats himself on a low shelf and waits for his people to come back to him – for there are his people, or they will be. Aglarond has won them just as it did him, and already he pictures this first cavern tided a little, the rough edges worked into towering dwarfish columns. The original opening leads directly to the Hornburg and so it will not do – it will be widened a little and used as a side route instead. Some forty metres from the tunnel to the Hornburg two natural columns lean together to form and arch, and Gimli’s spine tingles as he envisions them as the basis for a gate to rival that of Erebor. Yes, they will tunnel out that way, work the stone into a majesty fit to make Mahal himself shed a tear. A grand entrance – a staggered series of arches completed by this final natural beauty. Mirrors will be hidden and angled to bring the light in from the valley to glitter upon the precious stones embedded in every surface. Enough light for even an elf, and there – up near the apex of the arch, perhaps there’s space for the room living in such precise detail on the backs of Gimli’s eyelids. If there’s not space, he can make it elsewhere. He is to be Lord of these halls, after all.  

            He lifts his chin, crosses his arms in front of his chest. Lord of the Glittering Caves! Not a bad title. Not bad at all.

* * *

            Before Lordship comes negotiations and petitioning, and for all the wonder of Aglarond Gimli quickly grows tired of the long hours in the court of men. Friendships with the ruling men of the lands can only do so much when those men must rule under the shackles of their less wise underlings. Grimr Wormtongue these men are not, though, and even the most obstinate recognise that this is a petition that Gimli will inevitably win. Granting the dwarves permission to scout the caves in the first place means that all this fussing is pointless.

            Gimli hates pointlessness, and his frustration finds him returning time and time again to the familiar shapes and motions required of his axe. Rógvi most often obliges him, and though Gimli knows the first time is a final apology for Rógvi’s words against Legolas all the times after are for the sheer thrill of it. All of Gimli’s dwarrows are chafing at the relentless tip-toeing of diplomacy, the rehashing of arguments already won, and he imagines that all of them now have their own plans for the caves etched in their minds just as he does with Legolas’ room. If Éomer-King joins them once or twice to vent his frustrations at his own court, then Gimli will not be the one to tell.

            A raven comes and goes from Erebor, and then another, and it is with the third bird that Éomer’s court finally decides that they have dithered long enough and Gimli is allowed Lordship of the infant dwarrowdelf. For all his realm consists of empty, unworked chambers, Gimli feels the hot glow of pride through all that day and long into the evening, which he spends making merry with his dwarrows. Truly his, now that he is a Lord – these twelve are the first of his people, and they will be remembered in Aglarond’s histories for this. It’s a humbling honour, and it’s pleasing to see them lift their shoulders to brace the weight of such a mantle.

  “You will all be Lords, when our work is done,” says Gimli, the group of them all assembled around him. “Let us take our wisdom to the stones and have more than an empty cave waiting to receive our people!”

  “They will come?” asks Rógvi, a touch of uncertainty in the downward slope of his mouth.

Gimli nods and stands tall and strong, for if they worry then he must not. “They will come,” he says.

  “Aye, I don’t doubt it,” says Asmun, her teeth flashing white as she grins. “One of the Nine Walkers calls for volunteers to craft and fill a realm as grand as dwarrowdelfs lost in Ages past! Were I still in Erebor I would be running out of the gate before the messenger had finished.”

  “As it turns out you ran so fast you got here as part of the advance party,” says Gimli, clasping her shoulder. “I thank you for your support, Asmun. I thank all of you,” he says, sweeping his arms out to all of them.

  “We thank _you_ , Lord Gimli,” says Asmun, and she bows, Rógvi only a second behind her and the others following.

            Gimli allows it for a long moment, and does not knuckle away the tears when they come. To do so would be a discredit to these dwarrows and the loyalty they have shown him in following him this far. “We’d best set to,” he says, and claps his hands together not in the clatter of men or the light flutter of elves but in the booming slap of dwarves, loud enough to make a passing courtier stumble and drop his hat. “We will make our people proud!” he cries, and they roar for him, his twelve dwarves, heedless of the courtier as he scuttles away with eyes bulging in alarm.  `

            The courtier had best get used to it, because Gimli’s folk are here to stay.

* * *

            The unworked stone of the mountain yields readily to the masterful skill of Gimli’s dwarves, and only a week in they are able to start using their own entrance. It’s narrow, small enough for a man or elf to have to stoop near in half, but for now it will do.

            Gimli stands in the mouth of the new tunnel and feels as if he shouldn’t fit down it for his pride. This first entrance, meagre yellowish borehole though it might be, is still marvellous in his eyes.

            The men of the Hornburg are allowed something of a breather with the start of the work – the dwarves spend long hours at toil, and only come to the keep for meals and sleep, which they take without their usual boisterousness. The men might think it a lessening of merriment, but in truth this work is the real joy, the one that drew this first band down from Erebor under Gimli’s guidance. Erebor is grand but it is a stately, mature kind of loveliness – the main halls are complete and have been for centuries. Only chambers on the lowest levels of habitation remain workable, and Erebor’s population has not yet grown enough for such rooms to need the attention. This place – this wonderful Aglarond, is a chance not just for their people but for their youth. Asmun, Rógvi – both have yet to reach their first century, their faces young and lineless beneath their beards. The others of their company are of a similar age – of them Gimli is the oldest and he is yet in his prime, his beard as bright as fire and muscles blessed with great strength. They are young, his dwarves, and they trust him, and Gimli is determined not to let them down.

            Gimli works hard alongside them when he can and spends the rest writing letters – seeking trade for the wondrous goods that will one day flow from Aglarond in a river of gold to rival Erebor itself. Men are short-sighted, however, and securing promises for jewels which have not yet been set or mounted turns out to be far more tedious than it would were Gimli dealing with dwarven diplomats. The men that Gimli writes will be dead or nearly imprisoned in their own bodies by age by the time Aglarond crests in its glory, and they don’t seem particularly interested in their death beds being made of gold. He changes tactics, writes reams about the glorious future of their allied peoples, of grandchildren flush with wealth and jewels, of full bellies for eternity.

            The men start to listen. The first time a reply comes for ‘the Lord of the Glittering Caves’ rather than to Gimli Gloínson, Asmun pounces Gimli in the caverns. _Crack_ , go their foreheads, and Gimli has to bury his touched smile in the tankard she reveals to him a moment later. They drink and tell stories, the whole group of them, down in the main cavern with the gems glittering overhead, and it’s as if they’re breathing in the future. Gimli tips his head back against a spire of rock and stares up above the archway, to the space he has chosen for Legolas’ room, and for a moment he can almost feel stone leaves between his fingertips.

            They sleep in the caverns that night, bundled in blankets and warmed by drink. Sleep ducks away from Gimli at the last moment, however, and leaves him on his back staring up at the ceiling high above – lost to darkness with the exception of the shining facets of countless precious stones. 

            Legolas’ dwarfish stars are the last thing Gimli sees that night. It seems apt, then, that the next day brings him Legolas himself.

* * *

            He wakes first, as always, and finds himself standing in the sunlight. Yesterday’s clothes are rumpled and warm around him, warming further in the blooming dawn, and he takes a few steps further from the tunnel mouth and moves through a few stretches. Drink dulls the body, and Gimli wakens a little more with every tensed muscle, until he stands fully aware in the sunlight.

            He glances back at the tunnel, a little bemused as to what drew him outdoors, and when he turns his eyes back to the great plain that lies before the Hornburg his eyes light upon a long train of ponies and wagons bearing dozens of stout figures. His people have come, and what a wonderful sight – but surely that distant convoy is not what called him from sleep, however useful it might be in ensuring he has time to make a good first impression. Some Lord he is, with his beard sticky and braids unkempt. He makes a half-hearted attempt at mending them, but really it is something to keep his hand busy while he idles outside, watching the convoy.

            There’s a wink of gold near the lead pony, atop a smudge of grey, and Gimli’s hands still on his beard. Unbidden, the image of the room wakens in the back of his mind, and for all his silver tongue and wisdom, for all his allies and his friends and those who follow him, Gimli opens his mouth and says, explosively, “ _Fuck._ ”

            He hurries back into the caverns to find Asmun on her feet, though she does look somewhat bleary. Rógvi is propped against her, hastily re-braiding his beard with movements sped by routine. The others are scattered around, some still asleep but waking fast, and Gimli hurries around them, shaking shoulders and patting heads. They’re all up in short order, but Gimli knows the speed of elvish-ridden steeds when their rider has no patience to speak of, and something in him coils tight with dread at the thought of Legolas’ first sight of Aglarond being the aftermath of a night of revelry. It had been but one night after many of hard work, but it would be difficult to show that when all eyes would be on their untidy clothing and beards.

  “Who lit your arse on fire,” says Asmun, eyeing him reproachfully. “I was enjoying my dreaming.”

  “Me too,” says Rógvi, in a deeply wounded tone, all overlarge eyes and hands tugging on his beard. It has nothing on Gimli’s ‘amad when he told her he wanted to join his ‘adad to Rivendell. Gimli’s ‘amad is a masterful dwarrowdam, skilled at both jewellery-making and the shepherding of her husband and son.

            He misses her always, but right now he _pangs_ for her. She would know what to do with this hot coal in his chest. But Gimli is not his ‘amad, and so he takes the coal and the image of the room and pushes them both to the back of his thoughts.

  “We have a people to greet,” he announces, making for the narrow passage still connecting them to the keep. “Come, we must not welcome them to this new realm of ours in this state!”

  “They have probably seen worse,” says Asmun.

  “From relatives and friends in the days after feasting, yes, but not from a settlement only a week in age and half a world away. They will be expecting much of us, and it would be wise not to disappoint.”

            Rógvi snorts. “I think it would not be untrue to guess that you are thinking of a different _they_ to the one you tell us of, Lord Gimli. You have been outside. Did you see your elf friend among the convoy?”

  “I did, and to you he is Prince Legolas of Mirkwood,” says Gimli. “Be thankful that he does not care much for formalities, if you are to remain so prone to disrespecting him.”

  “I speak not out of disrespect but out of regard for you, my Lord,” says Rógvi. “I would not see you hurt by this woodelf Princeling.”

  “Legolas would not hurt me. We have fought together under the gaze of the Eye itself.”

  “He would not mean to hurt you,” says Rógvi, and Gimli frowns at him. In the low light of the passage Rogvi’s expression is hard to read, but his tone is curiously terse. Gimli leans towards him, only for Asmun to clasp his opposite shoulder and tug him in her direction instead.

  “What he means to say is that for all your wisdom, great Lord, in matters of the heart you speak less like a Dwarf-Lord and more like one of us younglings,” she says, and a dwarrow following close behind them makes a loud sound of agreement. “I think you mean to conceal it, but your regard for Prince Legolas is obvious to all who know the signs of a dwarrow in love.”

  “I think Asmun thinks the same of me in that Legolas is unlikely to know such signs,” says Rógvi. “He would not mean to hurt you, but he would all the same.”

  “He would not hurt me when I have no such desires,” says Gimli. “You imagine much. Perhaps next time I should limit your drink.”

  “Lord Gimli!” snaps Asmun, but Gimli pulls free and strides ahead.

            The room burns behind his eyes the entire way up to the suite of chambers set aside for them.

* * *

            They meet the convoy on the ramp that leads up to the Hornburg proper. Gimli would have liked for them to move into the caves immediately, but the caves are still too new and he spots a few smaller figures amongst the dwarrows who have answered his call. Dwarflings are a great honour to be trusted with, and his chest warms at the sight of his people’s faith in the realm he will build for them. They have beards of red and black and brown and yellow, skin ranging from dark like Gimli’s own to near as pale as little Frodo. A great and varied gathering of his people, all joined together under the banner of Gimli’s fledgling leadership. Gimli looks at them and wonders if this surge in his breast, both joyed and fearful, is at all close to what Aragorn felt as the crown touched his brow.

  “They seem good folk, but even mithril may run through caves that harbour hidden dangers,” warns Rógvi, before stepping back to stand behind Gimli with the others of their first company. Asmun remains at his elbow, and Gimli is glad for her support.

            Rógvi’s words are wise, and Gimli will heed them, but for now he is faced by a group of weary travellers who trust his judgement enough to bring their little ones. He bows deeply to the dwarrowdam at the head of the column, only a second ahead of her as she does the same, far enough that the simple travel braids in her beard nearly brush the ground. “Welcome to the Hornburg,” he says, straightening. “We are honoured to receive you.”

  “ _Ai-menu duzhuk_ , Lord Gimli,” she says. “I am Turith, daughter of Kári. Forgive me for our forwardness, but we have little ones to feed and water, and I don’t doubt that even the strongest among us would appreciate such niceties.”

  “The men of Helm’s Deep are our allies, and have already been made aware of your arrival. They will provide such things for us until we are on our feet.”

  “And what recompense has been promised? We brought coin with us, but we are miners and craftsfolk, not courtiers with gold to spare.”

  “Future trade has been promised to many different quarters,” says Gimli. “All is well, but you were wise to ask.”  

            Turith smiles, a curious slanting of her mouth rather than the teeth-baring grin that Gimli favours himself. “I am my amad’s daughter, Lord Gimli.”

  “A wise dam,” he says, and her smile widens.

            Gimli steps to the side, intending to wave them on through the gates of the keep, but he is besieged by a flurry of gold and green. The arms so suddenly around him are light and strong, and he returns the embrace instinctively because he does not have to see to know this is Legolas.

            There’s an odd noise from Turith, a cut-off murmur of disquiet, but Asmun coughs and she subsides. Gimli pulls back from Legolas, clapping him on one thin shoulder and grinning broadly. “You come to us far sooner than I had expected!”

            Legolas laughs, and it’s strange after weeks of the deeper voices of men and elves. “Forgive the eagerness which brought me here, _mellon-nin_. I heard that your wish had been granted and I so desired to see you as a mighty Dwarf-Lord that I could not help but join this convoy as soon as we received word of them leaving the Mountain.”

  “You are very welcome,” says Gimli. “I expect he was a terrible imposition upon your group, Turith? What with all his nonsense singing and stargazing? I hope he didn’t slow you down too much.”

  “Prince Legolas was no trouble to us,” says Turith, in the exact same tone of voice Gimli’s adad reserves for the elves who come to the Mountain to trade.

            Legolas does not miss it, judging by his lopsided smile. He rakes one hand over his hair, neatening his wind-blown braids. “Lady Turith and her company were most accommodating for one foolish woodelf,” he says, and oh, Gimli has missed him. “It is good to see you, _mellon-nin_.”

  “And you,” Gimli returns. “I trust you are as travel-worn as the rest? You would be welcome to eat and rest with me and mine tonight. And don’t give me that elf nonsense. You need feeding and watering the same as any race.”

            Legolas thumbs his nose at Gimli and steps neatly around to stand beside him. “I fear we are keeping your people from their well-deserved comforts,” he says, his face smoothing into the perfect picture of princely manners. “I would not wish to hinder Lady Turith at this late hour.”

  “I will lead you to the quarters the men of the Hornburg have assigned for us,” says Gimli. “The hewing of sleeping quarters is of utmost importance to us, Lady Turith. You and yours will not be in the keep for overlong.”

  “Thank you, Lord Gimli,” says Turith, bowing.

            Gimli leads them into the keep, Legolas at his side. Their steps match for all their physical differences, strides sped and slowed to keep them together. It is as if they walk the great expanses of Middle Earth once more, with the stars for a roof and the grass to sleep on. Legolas is quiet as they walk, unusual for him, which makes Gimli wonder at just how welcome he was with Turith’s group. Legolas is warmer than Gimli was taught elves to be – a sunbeam to the cool moon of most of his kin. He is all light chatter and dancing words, jokes and tavern songs, a prince who chooses woodland garb over the finery that is his birthright, and while Gimli finds him lovely for it he can see how Turith would be chafed by it. Legolas is at once less elf and more elf just by sheer liveliness, and with him here the image of the room is sharper than ever in Gimli’s mind.  

            They settle at the long table raised on a dais at the end of the meal hall, for while Gimli longs to sit amongst his kin he recognises that the arrival of such a company of dwarves into a hall of Men requires at least a little pomp. Gimli sits to the right of the great carved chair at one end of the table, and Legolas across from him to its left. The chair itself is empty, as Eomer-king is at home in Edoras, but his lack of presence is a presence unto itself.

            The hall hasn't been empty any of the times Gimli has taken meals here before, but it hadn't been particularly close to capacity, either. Now it rings with the sounds of a full company of dwarves, and the air is brimming over with it. The servants of the Hornburg react to the arrivals with remarkable grace, and in under an hour most of the hungry mouths are busy on the crusted breads and white meats that the kitchens favour when Eomer-king is not present. Gimli and Legolas swap their own portions between them with the easiness of habit - the bread and butter goes to Legolas, the meat and relish to Gimli.

  "So you are the elf," says Asmun, joining them. The rest of Gimli's company follow her, and all at once the high table is crowded with curious faces. "I am Asmun."

  "Legolas Thranduillion," says Legolas, around a mouthful of crust, and something in Gimli relaxes a little when he sees that Asmun is charmed by it. "At your service," he adds, and the dwarvish addendum goes the rest of the way to putting Gimli's dwarrows at ease. 

  "I confess, you are not what I had first thought when Lord Gimli told us of you," says Rógvi, and Gimli tenses up all over again.

  "And what did you first think?" asks Legolas, and he smiles, a sharp little devious thing that has Asmun's brows vaulting up into her hairline. “To think an entire race all the same is wilful blindness, Master Dwarf.”

  “You’re one to talk,” interjects Gimli, when Rógvi visibly bristles.

            Legolas plugs his mouth with a forkful of potato when Gimli goes to continue, and smirks at Gimli’s indignant splutter. “Ah, _mellon-nin_ , lies do not become you!”

  “Lies—!” Gimli manages, swallowing hard enough that his throat aches. Oh, but he’s missed this – this hot space between them, the back-and-forth. This is what Gimli likes most about Legolas, and about their friendship.

            Gimli is silver-tongued, he is Elf-friend, but around Legolas he feels young and angry and _alive_. He is a diplomat and a warrior and carries the blood of kings, but Legolas seems to take great joy in scraping those things away with little jibes and contests until Gimli is just _Gimli_.

            Asmun looks like a babe given her first axe, but right now Gimli is having too much fun to care about what that means for his future. He bangs a fist on the table and grins so wide his cheeks hurt. “Blasted elf,” he says, and Legolas kicks the leg of his chair, and it’s so precisely calculated to knock Gimli without toppling him that Gimli knows it for the affectionate gesture it is.

            Rógvi, staring between them with bulging eyes, stops a passing servant and a few minutes later a whole group of servants descend on their company with two-dozen brimming tankards of ale. Rógvi takes three for himself and buries his face in his, whiskers and all, and Asmun claps him on the back hard enough that he chokes and comes back up with froth shining white on his dark beard.

            Legolas reaches for a mug but Gimli smacks his hand away and takes it for himself, grinning at Legolas’ pout. “Don’t give me that look! Ale is wasted on you!”

  “You’re just ashamed that your mortal hogwash isn’t potent enough to effect my noble constitution,” Legolas throws back, and makes another grab for the tankard Gimli has claimed. Gimli swats him away again, though gently, because for all he knows of Legolas’ strength he is still so very fine to look at, his hands long and slim, his fingers like willow switches. Legolas likes to play up how slight he seems, and Gimli knows this – which is why it’s strange that Legolas is being so honest. His laughter is loud and unfettered, not the demure tinkle that it was during the first few weeks of their Quest, his gestures bold, his seat in his chair relaxed, legs sprawled. This is Legolas the woodelf, not Legolas the Prince, and Gimli’s mood sobers a little as he realises this.

  "How was the Lady Turith?" asks another of Gimli's company, a young widower named Ragbur. He is a delver with a talent for stone-sense that has made him invaluable to their fledgling expedition. "I know she is not overtly fond of your kind, Lord Elf."

  "Mind your words, Ragbur," says Gimli, leaning back in his chair with his tankard cradled against his chest. He nods significantly towards the far side of the hall, where Turith sits at one of the long tables surrounded by the other dwarrowdams of the column. "It would not do for the Lady Turith to hear such thoughts."

  "They would be the truth," says Asmun, with a snort.

  "No, I - Lord Gimli is right. Forgive me for my easily loosened tongue," says Ragbur, casting a rueful look at his tankard before setting it on the table and pushing it away from himself, where it's promptly snatched up by a triumphant Legolas.

            Gimli gives Ragbur an approving nod even as he aims a kick at Legolas under the table. "She did not hear. All is forgiven."  

  "Diplomacy aside, I found more hospitality in Lady Turith's company than those of Durin's Folk have found with my people," says Legolas. "Something I hope will change," he adds, saluting Gimli with his stolen tankard.

  "Aye!" cheers Gimli, returning the salute.

            Rógvi comes up spluttering from his second dive into his tankard. "I do not think such changes would come as easily as all that!"

  "That is why I _hope_ for change," says Legolas. "I do not expect it."

            He holds up his tankard, meeting Rógvi's gaze steadily the whole time, until Rógvi's mouth twists into a wry smile and he lifts his own tankard in turn.

* * *

            "I thank you, Lord Gimli," says Turith, having come to their table once their plates have been cleared away and the new arrivals have begun to trickle out of the hall, guided by servants towards the rooms that they have been allocated. "Hot food, warm beds - you have made a masterful first impression."

  "I will convey your thanks to Eomer-king, next I see him," says Gimli. "He has been most kind in supporting the founding of this dwarrowdelf."

  "I am sure his _kindness_ has been promised compensation," says Turith, and Gimli carefully schools his face against reacting to the sneer in her tone.

  "So it has," he agrees. "Rest well, Lady Turith. I will see you and yours after the morning meal to discuss the work to be done."

            Turith bows to Gimli, nods her head at Legolas, and then turns curtly on her heel and heads over to join the rest of her people as they leave the hall.

  "Lord Legolas!" exclaims Asmun, noticing at the same time as Gimli that Legolas has not left with the other arrivals.

  "I would not be parted from my dear friend so soon after being reunited," says Legolas, resting a slender hand on Gimli's nearest shoulder. "A nightcap, perhaps?"

            Near all of Gimli's company bow out of the suggestion, leaving only Asmun to decline. She looks between the pair of them - rather significantly at Legolas' hand where it remains on Gimli's shoulder - and then shakes her head. "Enjoy yourselves, my Lords - though I would ask you to contain yourselves, since it seems we are to be sharing sleeping quarters!"

            Legolas opens his mouth, stops. He looks sidelong at Gimli. "Sharing? When there are rooms in the Hornburg?"

  "The rooms here are quite pleasant, but they are nothing on the caverns that will become the greatest dwarrowdelf of this Age!" says Ragbur. His great barrel chest puffs out with ale-fueled pride. "It is an honour to spend our nights in them!"

  "Then I would be proud to share such an honour," says Legolas, squeezing Gimli's shoulder when Gimli begins to protest. "No, I will not hear it! I have lain beside you in the shadow of the Black Gate itself, _mellon-nin_. I would be proud to lay beside you in the beginnings of your own realm."

            Asmun is smirking, damn her - and damn the elf's word choice. Gimli clears his throat over the noise of Rógvi quietly asphyxiating, and nods. "Then - lay beside us you will," he says, studiously ignoring Asmun as her smirk grows. "Come. Let us show you Aglarond."

* * *

            The deep velvet of night finds them all in the main cavern, sides pressed warm together through their clothes. Legolas and Gimli have settled themselves on a low ledge with their backs to one of the sloping walls, heads tipped so that their eyes can soak up the glow of Legolas' dwarven stars. The bodies of Gimli's dwarrows lie in a ring on the cave floor a few metres from their outstretched legs, curled under blankets, heads pillowed on their clothes and packs.

  "You've done so much already," says Legolas.

  "We have much still to do," says Gimli, but he is pleased that the changes are visible even to Legolas' untrained elven eyes. 

  "But still, it is remarkable," says Legolas. "I presume that the living spaces and the mines have been the priority?"

  "The mines and the main entrance have been our focus up until now, but that will change now that Turith has arrived. She will not want to spend long relying on the hospitality of men."

  "But you will be relying on the farms of Rohan, will you not?"

  "We will trade," says Gimli. "It is not the same as charity."

            Legolas nods. "Do you think Turith will be a problem?"

            Gimli flashes Legolas a startled look. "You were most supportive of her earlier."

  "Can I not be honest with my dearest friend?"

  "Ah. Then she was not so pleased to have the company of one foolish woodelf?"

  "How perceptive of you," says Legolas. Gimli watches him as he lets his head droop back onto the cool stone. Gimli, with the cave-vision of a dwarrow in his prime, has no trouble making out the sudden weariness of Legolas' expression. “It is – I do not need luxuries. I need only company and the growing and the green, but Lady Turith – in every glance over my shoulder, in every instance I ate the fare I brought with me and not the goods of her people, she saw a spoiled princeling used to hiding behind his father’s robes.”

  “You are one of the Nine Walkers,” says Gimli, sitting up straight. “If the Lady Turith cannot see your true value, then I am concerned of her worth as a supporter of mine.”

  “No! No, she is a fine dwarf – a fine dwarrowdam,” says Legolas. “Her mother fell in the Battle of Five Armies, and she was raised on the stories of my father’s abandonment of the alliance between our peoples. I understand her wilful blindness.”

  “How did you find this, if she dislikes you so?”

            Legolas smiles, and it is bright and beautiful and beloved. “As you yourself prove, there are those of your people who don’t mind the company of a foolish woodelf, Gimli-nin.”

  “You are anything but foolish,” says Gimli, and he startles a little at the fondness in his own voice. “I missed you dearly, these past months.”

  “And I, you,” says Legolas, and his smile softens to something small and honest, and he slowly leans over and bends his head to rest on Gimli’s nearest shoulder. He is light as a bird and smells like a forest dampened by rainfall, and Gimli sits still and awed as Legolas’ eyes go distant and strange with sleep.

 

           

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally going to be a part of the 2015 Gigolas Big Bang, but real life caught up with me before I could make the word count. I'll do my best to finish this at some point! :)


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